


Feels Like A Secret

by akamine_chan



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Community: no_tags, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-27 20:50:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/983453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamine_chan/pseuds/akamine_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank packs his stuff.  </p><p>There's not a lot that he's taking; he won't need most of it where he's going.  He grabs <i>Catcher in the Rye</i> off the shelf, even though he knows there'll be a copy where he's going.  But this one is <i>his</i>, kept close to his heart over the years.  It's followed him from place to place since he was a kid, Jersey and New York and back to Jersey, out to the West Coast, and then eventually, home to Jersey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feels Like A Secret

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Ande and Argentumlupine for all their help. Was wanting to write a afterlife fic but realized that 1. Not everyone enjoys an afterlife fic (because, death and all) and 2. Turps already did it, better than I probably ever could. So instead, you get this, something that owes a lot to Neil Gaiman and Worlds' End. It was also pointed out that this also had a touch of Callahan's to it, which is an amazing compliment. \o/
> 
> Prompt was: _2\. Mikey/Frank - reconnecting_

Frank packs his stuff. 

There's not a lot that he's taking; he won't need most of it where he's going. He grabs _Catcher in the Rye_ off the shelf, even though he knows there'll be a copy where he's going. But this one is _his_ , kept close to his heart over the years. It's followed him from place to place since he was a kid, Jersey and New York and back to Jersey, out to the West Coast, and then eventually, home to Jersey.

The book is old and worn, paper cover soft from years of handling. Frank can still remember the first time he read it, the sudden lightness in his chest when he realized he wasn't alone in feeling isolated and hating the world.

That's a gift that Frank can never pay back to the author, but he's tried, over the years, to pass it forward. 

He's not sure if he's been successful, but it's moot point, now. 

Frank promised Mikey that he'd read the book aloud to him, so it goes into Frank's ratty old messenger bag, along with a small photo album filled with pictures of friends and family taken over the years. He won't forget them, he knows that, but he just wants to make sure.

He looks around the room, the band posters hanging on the walls, the shelves full of knick-knacks, and for one breathless moment Frank asks himself what the fuck he's doing. He can't leave, he has a life here, family, friends, a handful of bands that he loves to jam with. 

There's a bit of movement in the window and he sees his reflection, and certainty settles back into his bones. His tired, aching bones. It's been years since he could walk without pain, too many nights of throwing himself around on stage and abusing the fuck out of his knees. The face looking back at him, transparent in the glass, is wrinkled and old, his hair more grey than brown these days.

When he looks at his hands, the tattoos are faded and soft-edged, just like him.

It's time to go. He knows it. 

He turns in a circle, looking for anything else that he can't live without, but there's nothing. He's got _Catcher_ , his photos, and his guitar, the battered acoustic that he hasn't touched in a while. His fingers ache too much to play for long. There's nothing else he needs.

"C'mon, Sweet Pea," he says, pulling her leash out of the drawer. "Time for us to blow this joint."

Sweet Pea is mostly deaf, and partly blind, but she's game. She's Frank's shadow, his constant companion, and where he goes, she goes. Her gait is unsteady, but her tail's wagging when Frank crouches down and attaches the leash to her harness. 

Frank pulls the strap of his bag over his head, slings the guitar over his shoulder and wraps Sweet Pea's leash around his hand. He looks around the apartment one last time, turns off the light, and shuts the door firmly behind him.

* * *

He hails a taxi and ends up haggling with the cabbie over his 'no pets' policy; Frank bribes him with a fifty and gives him directions to where he needs to be. It's right on the edge of town, a scraggly stand of trees that used to be a park. Now, it's weed-choked and abandoned, and mostly forgotten, even by the people who live nearby.

Years ago, Frank did his research, looking into the history of the area, especially of the park and the old stone bridge, from the Hackensack Indians who had originally lived here, to the Puritan colonists, and the influx of people during the industrial revolution. The park was built in the early 1900's, but Frank had found little information on the bridge itself. 

The bridge was made out of round grey stones, mortared together with cement, gently arching over a dry river bed. At one end, there was a brass plaque bolted into the stone, _ALEXANDRIA BRIDGE_ in Gothic looking letters. There'd been brief mention of the bridge in several history books of the area, dating as far back as 1732, but other than that, no one seemed to know who built the bridge or why.

As a teenager, Frank had spent much of his time in the park with the family dog Mama, hiding from the constant arguments of his parents, trying to ignore the way his family was falling apart. Mama had managed to slip her leash and lead Frank on a merry chase under the bridge, and that was when Frank found himself _elsewhere_.

He smiles, and pets Sweet Pea, and ignores the chatter of the cabbie, who's bitching about the Giants and taxes. Frank watches the city go by, memories flickering through his head like a movie. He remembers playing in _that_ shitty bar, and eating the best tacos ever at _that_ Mexican grill, layers of sensory experiences, the taste of pizza, the smell of garbage, the feel of the chill wind, the sight of skyscrapers in the distance, the sound of traffic.

Okay, Frank can admit he's going to miss this, a little.

They leave the urban sprawl behind and when the driver pulls up to the park entrance, his eyes are dubious in the rear-view mirror. "You sure about this, man?" 

Frank knows what he sees, an old man and an even older dog, harmless and helpless. "I'm sure," he says, and pays the fare and gives the cabbie a generous tip to boot. "Let's go, Sweet Pea."

The driver waves as he leaves, and Frank waves back before setting Sweet Pea on the ground. She sniffs at a rock, then looks up at Frank, waiting. Frank laughs.

* * *

It's a beautiful late summer day, breezy and cool without being cold, so Sweet Pea and Frank take their time, ambling through the park. Frank lets Pea chase down a few scents, and she growls at a toad that she startles in the leaf litter. She looks to Frank, who shakes his head and pulls her away from her new friend. "C'mon, girl."

The bridge is still there, unchanged, ivy-tangled and mossy. Frank pauses, and takes a deep breath. "Well, there's no turning back," he murmurs to Sweet Pea, who's straining against the leash. "You were always braver than me." She barks, sounding excited. "All right, then."

It's shadowed under the bridge, cool and quiet. It feels like a secret. With each step Frank takes, the years slide away. The constant ache in his knee and hip fades, and his vision sharpens. He stands up straight without pain, and when he flexes his fingers, they seem strong and nimble. 

Sweet Pea tugs on the leash, bouncing excitedly, and Frank notices that her coat is darker, and she's moving easier, the stiffness gone from her joints. Her tongue hangs out from the side of her mouth and she looks at him with eyes that are crystal clear, the cloudiness gone like it had never been there at all.

Frank looks back over his shoulder; the park is blurry, like he's looking through a gauzy curtain. He thinks that maybe he should feel regret, but he doesn't. At all.

* * *

The building is never the same, and certainly is much larger on the inside than it appears. It's always in the same place, a short walk from the end of the archway. Today, it looks like a simple log cabin, smoke curling from the chimney, somehow welcoming.

Frank doesn't hesitate, he steps up to the door and knocks on the rough wood.

The door swings open and Frank finds himself swept up in a warm embrace, his guitar twanging quietly in protest. "Frank! We've been waiting for you," a voice says, and when Frank hears the Librarian's voice, he knows everything is going to be fine.

Sweet Pea barks and dances around his feet, and the Librarian takes a step back. "And you brought Sweet Pea! She's exactly as you described."

Frank can't help grinning. "Of course."

The Librarian crouches down to pet Sweet Pea, instantly winning her heart. Frank watches, and realizes that the Librarian hasn't changed in all the years that Frank has come here. Tall and androgynous, pale with an odd accent, strangely jointed fingers. Alien. 

Frank has never been able to tell what gender, if any, the Librarian is, not that it matters. He’s never asked, and the Librarian has volunteered very little about zirself.

"Welcome home, Frank," the Librarian says, standing back up and holding the door open for Frank and Sweet Pea. 

They step over the threshold, Frank and his dog, and they both sigh. Home.

* * *

The Library is a nexus of sorts and the people who show up there come from different times, different realities. Mikey and Gerard come from a place without automobiles, which baffles Frank. Ray comes from a time in the future, with technological marvels that Frank's never heard of. It makes for interesting late-night conversations over beer.

Mikey calls it the Library at the End of the Universe, stolen from some famous book that he'd read. Ray calls it the Librardis, for reasons Frank doesn't understand. Something about a _television_ show, though Ray has never been able to satisfactorily describe a _television_ to Frank. A lighted box with pictures, like a movie, but smaller. 

Frank's always called the Library home.

The Library is at the confluence of a tangled nest of realities, parallel but different. Time moves differently at the Library, and the pathways through the realities are twisted and knotted, opening and shutting at the whim of some unheard cosmic beat.

"Mikey's been waiting," the Librarian confides. "Jittering like a _beezl_."

Frank can't help but smile at that, ignoring the way his stomach flutters. "Where is he?"

"In the stacks, A - Ac, I think. I'll take care of Sweet Pea here, get her settled with some food and water, and we'll see you when we see you." The Librarian winks, double eyelids fluttering, and Frank blushes like a teenager. 

"Thanks," he says, and heads toward the A's. It's a long walk; the Library is huge. Once, Mikey and Frank had stayed up late, trying to calculate the number of books that the Library contained, and they gave up because they realized that neither of them had actually managed to find the Zw - Zy section.

Frank finds Mikey, and just takes a moment to look him over. He doesn’t look any older than the last time Frank had seen him, years ago. He watches as Mikey picks up a book from the cart, examines it, and then puts it on the shelf, long fingers sure and smooth as he caresses the spine in farewell. He's always done that, and Frank has teased him for it.

He remembers the first time he saw Mikey, both of them grungy teenagers in an unbelievable situation. Looking back, Frank's pretty sure that he fell in love with Mikey at first sight. There'd been something about his shy grin, and the way he joked, oblique and wry, that had made Frank's heart race. 

The Librarian had fed them, made them shower, and sent them on their separate ways. "It's not the right time. Go back, live your lives, and come visit every once in awhile."

Frank had tried to protest, but the Librarian shushed him. "You will feel when the doors open. And you'll know when it's time."

He could feel when the doors slipped open, and when he was still in Jersey, he’d walked under the Alexandria Bridge and found his way to the Library, meeting up with Mikey. They’d stolen kisses in the stacks, explored and touched, and then returned to their respective homes and grown older. It was disconcerting to watch Mikey mature and age in snapshot flashes, knowing that it was just as strange for Mikey to watch Frank do the same. 

And Frank _had_ known when it was time, when his days dragged endlessly on, and the joy he'd felt at being alive was dull and muted. 

Mikey looks so good to Frank's eyes, healthy and happy and young again, a small smile on his face, his foot tapping to a beat only he can hear. And Frank can't wait anymore, he's been waiting long enough, and—"Mikey."

Mikey looks at him, and the way he lights up makes Frank's breath catch in his throat. "Frank," he says, setting the book in his hand down carefully. "Frank," he repeats, and Frank's in his arms, holding tight, face pressed against his chest. He inhales Mikey's scent, sweat and skin, and something deep inside clicks into place.

"Missed you," he mumbles, and Mikey just holds him tighter, rocking them a little.

"I knew you were coming; I could feel it, but waiting was so fucking hard," Mikey says, voice unsteady. "So glad you're home."

Frank just nods against Mikey's chest and lets the tension ease out of his shoulders. He'd been stupid to ever doubt himself, and Mikey. Mikey presses a kiss to Frank's temple, and takes his hand, leading Frank to his room.

Frank's pretty sure he's forgotten what the patch of skin on Mikey's hip tastes like, and he can't quite remember what Mikey sounds like when he's balanced on the edge of his orgasm, pleasure coursing through his blood as Frank touches him, kisses him.

No matter. They have all the time in the world now.

Frank pulls Mikey's clothes off, exploring each part of him as it’s revealed. Frank doesn't want to rush, so he pushes Mikey down onto the bed and just _looks_ at him, lean and wiry and finally _his_. He kisses Mikey, deep and thorough, and he loves the little sounds that Mikey's making, soft sighs and moans.

"Missed you, Mikeyway," he murmurs, and Mikey nods and pulls Frank down, pressing their bodies together from chest to knee. It's like they were made for each other, their arms and legs fitting together perfectly, Frank's head tucked under Mikey's jaw. They hold each other, breathing in sync, and Frank feels like he's overwhelmed with happiness. It makes him giddy, and he giggles.

They make out, lazy and slow, soft kisses and tangled fingers and the rough friction of sweaty skin. It's sweet and familiar and Mikey doesn't stop smiling, even when Frank strokes his dick until he comes all over Frank's tattooed fingers. Once he catches his breath, Mikey returns the favor, teasing Frank's cock until Frank's whimpering and then he leans down and uses his mouth on Frank.

Frank doesn't last long after that, and they drowse for a while, curled into each other, sweat-damp and content.

And later, they go down to the common room where the Librarian, Ray and Gerard and Lindsey, Kit and Maya and Will, the Lady and the Lord and so many others gather to eat and drink and laugh the night away.

Home. Forever.

-fin-


End file.
